Simon sat still, watching life pass him by. An expert in stealth attacks, he was a well-oiled killing machine. He had survived the war longer than any of the others, which made him both tired and chiseled. Nothing phased him. Catching sight of his next target, Simon crept around the corner, unseen. He slowed his breathing, steadying his nerves ready for the next battle. One he hoped would be the last. His target enters the kill zone and Simon moves into action. The first strike landed on the target, stunning him. Without warning, lights struck the battle zone. Game Over.

The house at the end of the block sat. A dilapidated shell of its former self. The city wanted it condemned and torn down, saying it was an eye sore and potential hazard for local kids who might be enticed to go play in it. Some of the newer, younger neighbors agreed with the city and started taking bricks here and there, but inevitably, another neighbor would stop them. The older people in the neighborhood understood. They remembered. They were there when Jeff and Lily first moved in. They were there when Abigail arrived, then Joseph, and finally little Angel. They were there when the hiker lit his campfire on a no burn day. They were there when the winds picked up. They were there when the sounds of Lily’s cries could be heard above the roar of the fire. They were there as others received their rebuilding checks from the developer and FEMA. They were there when Jeff collapsed on the remains of his home when he read the letter informing him his insurance company called it act of God and denied his claim. They were there. They will always be there. And so will the house.